An Evening With Anti-Matter
by Xanderlike
Summary: He can't feel her arms around him. He can never touch her. He can want, but he can never have ...


"Marcus Cole has always been my hero."

Her eyes roll slightly as he says this. He imagines that she has heard that said countless times in her life. She takes a sip of the wine—REAL wine that he obtained just for this special occasion—and says, "He's _still_ your hero?"

"Yes." It's the sort of confession that Neuron would laugh at him for. "Megan—may I call you Megan?"

"Here. But _only_ here." There's an implied threat in her words. "_Never _in public, Anti-Matter."

"Please call me Raymond." He had ran from that name all his life—Raymond Keyes was nothing, no one—_Anti-Matter _was a hero, a genius, a man of power and vision who had earned his right to stand at the right hand of Emperor Cole himself.

But he had always wanted to hear her voice say _Raymond_.

"Raymond." She takes another slip of the wine for lack of anything else to do. "You say he's still your hero? After he stripped away your Praetorship? After he spurned you for Neuron?"

He's not used to seeing her face without a mask on it. It's almost erotic. It entrances him, but it adds an element of unreality to the evening. "The Emperor has many concerns." Her lips are so very red. "He thinks that Neuron will help him save the world—save _all _worlds. In time he will recognize Neuron's deficiencies." He steeples his fingers because he cannot drink wine with his helmet on.

He can't quite read her eyes—is that disgust or pity? Perhaps even faint amusement?

This is madness. He knows this is madness. He knows it is madness, but he cannot help himself. Her eyes hold him.

The dress flatters her every curve. The rubies around her neck are as red as blood. As red as her lips …

"Dinner. And a dance. And perhaps—_perhaps _—something more."

She should be in his power. With a word he could bring down the full wrath of the Praetorian government upon her. Not even _she_ would be safe.

But he can't.

Emperor Cole would have to make an example of her—_especially_ of her.

He can't bear the thought of harm coming to her.

She owns him—and she _knows _it. Her own peril is a weapon against him.

"You're not eating."

"I can only consume solid food in private." For once, he's grateful for his armor. She can't see how his eyes devour her. Sensors are recording her every word, her every gesture. He's even captured air samples so he can experience first hand what her perfume smells like later.

"That's a shame. Nothing enhances conversation like a good meal." She delicately takes a bite of her steak—something else that had required a great deal of effort for him to acquire. Her teeth are so very white … "Don't you agree, _Raymond?"_

He hates the mockery in her voice.

"Yes, Megan." He almost whimpers. "Yes."

"You're all alone here, Raymond."

"Yes."

"No assistants. No friends?"

"I have no friends." It hurts because he once had. It's hard to remember the time when Steven Berry had not been Neuron—when he had been his friend. Steven had always envied his genius—oh Steven had been intelligent before, but certainly no match for Anti-Matter's intellect. Raymond had trusted him …_then. _"I have my Clockwork."

"Yes. Your impressive Clockwork. It's really the foundation of Tyr—of Emperor Cole's army." She brings her fingers to her lips and then lets them trail down her neck.

"Megan. Please."

"Please what, Raymond?"

"Don't."

"Don't what, Raymond? Don't ask you for what we both know I want—the only reason that I agreed to come here tonight? Don't sit here and be a woman—a woman you can never have because your touch is poisonous? The only way you could have me—could have _any _woman- would kill me." She smiles, and this time he's sure there's _pity_ in her eyes. "And you won't do that because there are lines you won't cross."

He buries his face in his hands and cries out in anguish.

She pulls him to her, into her arms and holds him. "It's all right, Raymond. It's all right."

But it's not all right. He can't feel her arms around him. He can never touch her. He can _want__, _but he can never _have._

She pulls him to her feet and they begin to dance. He's never been a good dancer—when he was young—in the first days of Emperor Cole's reign—just surviving was a constant struggle and no one had time to teach him. Now his armor harnesses his power, makes it safe for him, for the world, but it does not give him grace.

_She _dances.

He lumbers about like a robotic Frankenstein.

"Megan," he whispers finally. "Have pity on me."

"You know what I need, Raymond. The plans. Give them to me." Her hands slide up to his helmet and she brings her mouth up to where his would be if he were free. "Now, Raymond. _Now._"

Fumbling hands go to his belt and he hands her the oversized USB Drive. "Take it and go! Leave me alone! Please!"

She takes the drive and lets him go. The pity on her face is worse than her earlier scorn. "I am _sorry,_ Raymond. This is war."

"You're just like her, you know." It's only the last shreds of his self-respect that keep him from crying in front of her now. "You're just like Dominatrix."

Ms. Liberty flinches. "I'll be back, Raymond."

He's not sure if it's meant to be a threat or a promise. "I know."

He turns away as she summons the portal that will take her back home—back to her world where the man he could have been—the man he _should_ have been is free from the living death of eternal confinement. He doesn't see her leave.

She will be back.

So he waits.

He waits because he has nothing left.


End file.
